


Show Him Some Respect

by singularly_obsessed (orphan_account)



Series: Domesticity 221b [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Declarations Of Love, EXCEPT THAT ENDING, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, ambiguous declarations but it's not like squinting ambiguous, but this was started long before i saw it so, i really have no idea where that came from, it's not a bad ending, just not a cracky one, kind of aligns with a tumblr post, like seriously this whole thing is just crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singularly_obsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Care to test your theory?” Sherlock cut in, and John did not like the sound of that.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>Sherlock smiled, he smiled that smile John was sure he copied straight from Mycroft in his oh-I-am-so-very-<em>angry</em>-but-have-the-resources-to-<em>do-something-about-it</em> mode, and oh, this was Very, <em>Very</em> Not A Good Idea now.</p>
<p>In which the Yarders make a wager, Sherlock is suspiciously accommodating, and John is extremely worried for everyone's safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Him Some Respect

**Author's Note:**

> There's a post I saw once on tumblr, about how Sherlock would react if NSY ever insulted John. I can't find it, and as the tags say I started this long before I saw that but. Yeah.
> 
> Per usual no beta or britpick, but shoot me a call at that there link if you'd want to. 
> 
> In any event, you should totally come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/). We can scream about Johnlock together.

“So you’re still here, then?”

John glanced over as the man stopped level with him, eyes flicking down to note the crossed arms before returning to Sherlock and his examination of the body. The flat share between them has held steady for just over three months, much to the shock of London, it seemed to John. He remembered just last week Sherlock had texted him, insistently, _while he was with a patient,_ just to prove to Donovan et al. that _yes,_ he still followed Sherlock bloody Holmes home at the end of the day. Of course, that wasn’t the ‘real’ reason—Sherlock had needed his opinion on Cotard’s Delusion, and what that had to do with a cat burglar John _had not wanted to know, thank you!_

On the whole, the surprised (and sometimes pitying) looks he received when he entered a crime scene with Sherlock were really starting to piss him off.

“I don’t know,” John replied somewhat absently, leaning forward as Sherlock nearly stuck his fingers down the victim’s throat. Had to watch those hands, the quick bastards; never knew what kind of evidence Sherlock would slip into his pockets otherwise. “Sure hope so, though, otherwise I’ll have to punch him for drugging me again.”

The officer frowned, watching John as one would a very, very bad telly: a mix of I-should-get-away, I-need-to-know-more, and that special this-can’t-be-serious pained grimace-smile. John would know; he’d seen a lot of bad telly.

“Oh, so you _do_ remember the first time,” Sherlock said, leaping over the corpse on his way to the bureau.

“Yeah, a bit hard to miss that I lost an _entire fucking day,_ Sherlock,” John replied, snapping on a pair of gloves and moving forward to have his turn observing the body. Might as well keep up appearances and at least _pretend_ to be doing something useful. He never knew when Scotland Yard would open their eyes and realize he didn’t offer anything special. It was a well-known fact that a Sherlock that needed a second opinion was either a: an impostor, or b: testing you, so in all honesty _what the fuck was John still doing here?_ It was one question among many that kept him up at night.

“You didn’t even do anything _interesting,_ I keep telling you—”

It almost made John laugh that Sherlock thought that to be reassuring. Kudos for trying, John supposed. “Have you ever been unaware of _anything_ you did for twenty-four hours?”

Sherlock whipped around, lips set to royally-affronted pout. “My memory—”

“Then _be quiet.”_

“I just don’t see it,” No-name officer said, startling them both. Looked like they’d forgotten they were in public again. John sighed; they really needed to work on ‘Appropriate Conversation Settings for Private Conversations’. Perhaps after ‘What Does and Does Not Belong in the Fridge Unsealed’.

“You’re still here?” Sherlock sneered as he finished pawing through the bureau, side-hopping toward the cupboard. “Was John’s dismissal not enough?”

“I mean, it’s obvious you’ve got screws loose,” No-name continued, jerking his chin in Sherlock’s direction. John bristled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was nothing new, these flat barbs, but John despised them nonetheless. “But you must really be gone bat-shit to let him get away with it,” the copper finished, staring right at John.

John blinked. That was a new one. Refreshing, almost, to have a solid reason to be personally offended at what a Yarder said. He glanced at Sherlock (because _let him?_ The last time Sherlock cared about being ‘allowed’ to do anything was probably around the same time as his first cell division in the womb), and that was when John realized, once again, he’d have to intervene before it came to blows, except the one he’d be holding off this time would be _Sherlock._ John had never seen him so blatantly planning someone’s murder before as he had that moment.

It said something about John that he was worried more for Sherlock getting caught than the officer being subjected to Sherlock’s no-doubt inventive methods of disappearing people. Something he took great pleasure in putting all his years as an emotionally constipated English male into ignoring.

“If _I_ were his flatmate, I’d never let him do half…” Mr Nemo went on, but John wasn’t listening. Sherlock had his _important-calculations_ face on, and when it came after _how-best-to-dispose-of-you face,_ whatever Sherlock said was always Not A Good Idea.

“Care to test your theory?” Sherlock cut in, and John did not like the sound of that.

“What?”

Sherlock _smiled,_ he smiled that smile John was sure he copied straight from Mycroft in his oh-I-am-so-very- _angry-_ but-have-the-resources-to- _do-something-about-it_ mode, and oh, this was Very, _Very_ Not A Good Idea now.

“Care. To test. Your theory?” he repeated, stalking closer. John prayed the man had at least a shred of common sense telling him to _run_ (for god’s sake, Sherlock _repeated_ himself, _without insult,_ that should have been more than enough red flags!), but the fool stood his ground, shoulders back and chin trying to hold up the sky. If he hadn’t been a target before, boy was he now, John thought, and there was nothing to spare the poor bloke. John hoped Sherlock would leave enough for identification.

The rest of the team covering the site were just as motionless as John (though whether they were straining to hear or trying to make themselves less of a future target, John wasn’t sure), Sherlock dominating even as he continued lowly, “You think John has stayed as my flatmate because he is not of his right mind. _Clearly,_ you are a _functioning_ member of society, and since you believe you can fare better than John, why not _prove it.”_

Oh _hell,_ just back away slowly and—

The man didn’t seem to think at all before he nodded. “What do you have in mind?”

That Smile was back. “Flat share, obviously. You, live with me, in 221B for two weeks.”

John released the breath he’d held. Fourteen days wasn’t too bad. Might be a bit cramped, but he dealt with worse—

“You’ll take John’s room.”

Oh _hell no._ “Oi!” John shouted. “And what am I supposed to do, kip in the couch?”

Sherlock flapped his hand. “Don’t be silly, of course not; your shoulder would seize, and where would we be if a case came up? No, Mycroft will rent you a hotel room.”

That was _rich._ All this, just because someone thought they were round the bend? It wasn’t even a new concept! “Will he now?” John asked, folding his arms.

Sherlock turned, maniacal grin flashing special for him, and John’s abdomen decided now was the time for all organs to flop to opposite sides. “Well, his card will.”

John had one last objection, and if that didn’t sway Sherlock, then damn it John would be packing a _very extended_ overnight bag.

“Not very scientific, testing just one bloke,” he challenged, and for a moment John ~~wished~~ thought Sherlock would grab him by the shoulders and _kiss him._ A man should not _ever_ look that ecstatic over the prospect of multiple people invading his flat.

“Brilliant, John!” Sherlock was eyeing the rest of the room like John did greasy takeout: _ravenously._ “Multiple trials: a _necessity_ in good theorizing; you’re finally catching on. Would anyone else like to participate?”

And like the _bloody fools_ they all were, the majority of the remaining personnel spared barely a glance at John’s horrified expression before cautiously raising their hands. John swore Sherlock cackled, dancing around the room and snapping up mobile numbers while John stood cast in stone, wondering _what the hell had he unleashed?_

\- - -

“Explain to me again why what’s-his-name can’t sleep on the couch?”

The sigh exploded from Sherlock, the air from it throwing his arms akimbo around his chest. “You showed great promise yesterday, John, what happened?”

John spared a glance from his computer to reprimand via frown, turning back and adding to his list of _Things That Will Keep You Alive:_ ‘don’t ever get insulted; it’s too much energy’. “Must have been a fluke or something. Did I drink from your mug by accident?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, folding his hands back together over his sternum. The next entry to the list read: ‘DO NOT EVER INGEST ANYTHING SHERLOCK GIVES YOU.’

“As you are a certified medical practitioner, it worries me that you used the energy to vocalize such _idiocy.”_

John hummed. He wondered if he should bold that one, or if the caps were clue enough. Then he nearly laughed, because nothing for these people would be _obvious._ If it were, they wouldn’t have _volunteered_ to be in what was really _assisted suicide._

Jesus, he hopes no one decides to sue. John should probably ask Mycroft, very, very _nicely,_ if he wouldn’t mind delegating one of his people to writing up some kind of _terms and conditions._ Consent form? Contract?

“And I told you to stop writing that list; you’re not allowed to help them,” Sherlock snapped near his ear. John did not jump/twitch/curse/slam his laptop closed. Instead, he pecked, ‘have no sense of personal space’ and firmly informed his flatmate that,

“I am not leaving these people defenceless, Sherlock. You already have the home advantage. Didn’t you say you need them to be me anyway?”

Sherlock groaned the groan of the suffering and tortured, flinging himself away to tinker in the kitchen. John struggled not to laugh at his antics. He had not one clue how he was going to stay entertained while he was effectively banished. “I _said_ I must _treat_ them as I do you, otherwise the premise of the experiment fails. How can we examine the state of your mind in comparison to the general public if my behaviour does not remain constant?”

“Yeah, and that explains why I’ve got to leave.”

“Of _course_ you have to leave! It would be far too distracting to ensure I don’t interact with you.”

John snorted, and the _whouf_ of the burner lighting reminded him to add, ‘stay out of the kitchen as much as possible.’ “Oh yeah, and ignoring me has always been so difficult.”

John was a bit sad that Sherlock would never understand why his lack of response was so amusing.

\- - -

>>>Day 1

Sherlock all but threw him out the door later that morning, and throughout the day John had to fight the urge to check in. _No news is good news,_ he tried to remind himself, lying on the _ungodly_ comfortable bed, staring up at an _ungodly_ high ceiling in the _ungodly_ expensive hotel Sherlock had decided Mycroft’s card would buy him. The view was spectacular, the building within spitting distance of the surgery’s roof, and John was only a mite afraid of falling asleep and waking up strapped to a chair across from an irate elder Holmes.

But only a smidge. He figured Mycroft was as interested in the results of this _disastrous mistake_ as Sherlock appeared to be.

John sighed, rolling over to his stomach, pressing his face into the scented-but-not pillow, trying to block out the traitorous little _no news is good news, except when you’re Sherlock Holmes._

\- - -

>>>Day 4

Three days passed before John received news in the form of an address. By that point, John had forged a newfound understanding of stroppy-caseless-Sherlock and took no pains to hide the pleasure in his voice when he phoned Sarah. She seemed almost as relieved as he was, and John probably should have felt guilty (he’ll buy the nurses and all them flowers or whatever when the case is over), but he was too bloody _excited_ to see Sher—no, he’d admit this: all the giddiness making his heart valves spasm was for Sherlock, and John was not embarrassed in the slightest, emotionally constipated or not.

God, that probably made him some kind of masochist, getting all worked up over the chance to be ignored in person.

Better for that than for corpses, though. At least John could say _that._

John was surprised then, when he turned from paying to cabbie to find Sherlock behind him.

_Right_ behind him. John felt his lungs snare, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the possibility of the case already being solved or the shock of finding Sherlock so… _close._ John swore the bastard was looming more than normal (that other guy was a bit taller than John, so perhaps he was stockpiling? Like those damn squirrels), and his gaze was so intent on his that John was tempted to snap his fingers, see how bad Sherlock startled when he broke from staring at the middle distance.

Except Sherlock didn’t do middle distance. He was all present, right there, and John had no idea how he felt about that. This was not what he prepared for.

John blinked, clearing his throat and peering around Sherlock at the scene. “So, you already solve it then?”

Sherlock’s head had turned to follow John’s. “No.”

John glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow, echoing, “No? Then what are you doing out here?”

Sherlock said nothing of his repetition. “Of course not. Aren’t you always going on about how polite it is to wait for all parties to arrive before beginning?”

John snorted, because he _did,_ but he never knew _Sherlock_ knew that, and he said as much.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I always listen, John. You should know better than to assume I don’t.”

“Yeah, I’ll hold you to that next time I tell you—”

“Oi!” Donovan shouted from across the lot. “Come on Freak, you’re boyfriend’s here and we haven’t got all day!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, spinning on his heel as John stifled a giggle (he was going to need to do some stockpiling of his own, or _something;_ three days without Sherlock and now the smallest things send him off—bit not good), falling neatly into step. It felt glorious to be beside him again, and John tried to minimize his bloody _glowing,_ because ~~if~~ _when_ Sherlock picked it up he’d flaunt it every time John chastised him against too much Public Displays of Excitement over Death and Other Macabre Things. Wouldn’t be able to argue against that without playing the hypocrite, something John refused to ever become.

And Fate must have been favouring him that morning, for right when he needed distraction, she gave him one in the name of No-Name.

John spotted him as he ducked under the tape, promptly wishing he hadn’t. He’d seen corpses with more light in their eyes. John coughed, apprehensive but desperate to know.

“So what broke him?”

“The violin.”

John frowned at him, his stomach clenching. If Sherlock felt the need to lie, it must be _bad._ “Oh, come on Sherlock, I was…” Sherlock blinked at him, and now John was _very_ concerned, because that was not Sherlock’s swindling face. “Wait, you’re serious? He couldn’t stand _the violin?”_

“No _p_ e.”

John stopped dead to avoid his feet tangling with his jaw. “Oh my god,” he breathed, unconsciously turning to watch the officers outside. They all gave the shell of Nemo a wide berth, and John could pinpoint exactly who had numbers in Sherlock’s phone and in what order by the _terror_ in their faces. “They’re all going to die.”

Sherlock hummed, eyeing them as well. “Mm, let’s be too ambitious.”

\- - -

>>>Day 9

> **Sent 13:22**
> 
> Sherlock

> **Sent 13:23**
> 
> Sherlock where are my keys

> **Sent 13:26**
> 
> Why did you take my keys Sherlock

> **Sent 13:28**
> 
> Sherlock answer me

> **Sent 13:29**
> 
> I will call you

>Calls  
>>Missed Calls: 2

> **Sent 13:37**
> 
> SHERLOCK HOLMES ANSWER YOUR BLOODY PHONE

> **Received 13:37**
> 
> Go away.  
>  SH

> **Sent 13:39**
> 
> Sherlock this is childish even for you

> **Sent 13:43**
> 
> WHAT DID YOU TELL MRS HUDSON

> **Sent 13:44**
> 
> WHY WON’T SHE LET ME IN THE FLAT

> **Received 13:45**
> 
> John, you’re ruining the experiment.  
>  SH

> **Sent 13:46**
> 
> THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER

> **Received 13:47**
> 
> This is exactly the situation I predicted when I borrowed your keys.  
>  SH

> **Received: 13:48**
> 
> You entering the flat now would negate all our results.  
>  SH

> **Received 13:50**
> 
> And how would the dependent variables enter and leave if they didn’t have a key?  
>  SH

> **Received 13:50**
> 
> John?  
>  SH

> **Received 13:51**
> 
> Where did you go?  
>  SH

> **Received 13:52**
> 
> Who’s being ‘childish’ now?  
>  SH

> **Received 13:53**
> 
> John did you hear that?  
>  SH

> **Received 14:00**
> 
> Mrs Hudson is definitely not going to let you in now.  
>  SH

> **Sent 14:02**
> 
> Don’t ever. Lock me out of my flat. Again.

> **Received 14:03**
> 
> You could have just told me what you needed; I would have put together a bag. And why is it that when you decide to implement punctuation, you use it incorrectly?  
>  SH

> **Sent 14:04**
> 
> Are we clear?

> **Received 14:04**
> 
> Is if for emphasis?  
>  SH

> **Sent 14:05**
> 
> ARE WE CLEAR

> **Received 14:06**
> 
> Yes, yes; when this is concluded I will no longer deprive you of your key.  
>  SH

> **Sent 14:06**
> 
> Sherlock

> **Sent 14:07**
> 
> Actually never mind

> **Sent 14:08**
> 
> After this never again

> **Sent 14:08**
> 
> Fine

> **Sent 14:09**
> 
> Oh and Sherlock?

> **Sent 14:10**
> 
> Next time it’ll be the front door

\- - -

>Messages  
>>Drafts

> Is that supposed to be a deterrent?  
>  SH

\- - -

>>>Day 14

“It was the refrigerator this time.”

“Now _that_ I can understand. Did you fit an entire corpse in there again?”

“No, it was—”

“Is it worse than the body parts?”

“That would depend on your definition of ‘worse’.”

“It better be gone when I get back.”

“…When you say _gone,_ you mean—”

“Yes, Sherlock, that includes disinfecting the kitchen.”

_“Just_ the kitchen?”

“What—No. Just. Hire a cleaning service, Mycroft’ll love having a go at bugging the flat again.”

“Mm, I hope his minions are _clever_ this time.”

\- - -

>>>Day 17

John wasn’t sure what woke him. The noises, more like the lack _of_ them, in the room was something he’d long gotten used to. Several times, before he’d fall asleep, John would wonder if returning to Baker Street’s racket would be more jarring or soothing. He figured either way it wouldn’t be much of a problem—he’d slept fine when he’d first moved in. Coming home at the end of this madness shouldn’t be too different.

When he looked back on it, John’s a bit more thankful he woke up _at all._

But John had. Something had pulled John drowsily from sleep, something warm and pointy and smothering.

“Sherlock,” he sighed. He figured he should be more confused, coming to with the world’s only consulting detective sprawled half-beside, half-over him in bed. John chalked the apathy down to happening pre-tea.

“Mph,” was all he got in return, Sherlock’s breath raising gooseflesh along his collarbone.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to _sleep,_ as you so often encourage.”

“Yes, alright, but what are you doing sleeping _here?”_

“They’re all so _dull,”_ he whinged, pressing his cheek and nose harder against John’s pectoral. “They’ve _infected_ the flat, and how can I be expected to _rest_ with _stupid_ dripping from the walls?”

“Ah,” John said. That made about as much sense as it didn’t. “And you’re _here_ because--?”

“Because you aren’t stupid, John. Well, at least not as obviously.”

“Ta for that, thanks.”

John was aware, at that moment, that he was as awake as he was going to get, and that there was no chance of returning to unconsciousness so long as one Sherlock Holmes remained plastered to his side. It was likely for the best that he didn’t, because at least while conscious he had control over what he did.

On second thought, John wished he could go back to dreaming. Everything could still be salvageable then when he made a royal arse of himself. Not so much now.

“But you’re _here,_ in my bed—”

Sherlock groaned, and John quite agreed with him. “For god’s sake, John—why would I break into a new room when I can break into yours?”

“Because it has an unoccupied bed?”

“But it doesn’t have _you.”_

Oh. Oh, this could be _good._ “So you _missed_ me!”

Sherlock’s head shot up in indignation. “I did not!” _Very good indeed._

“It’s okay.” John dared to run his hand through those curls. He could blame it on sleep deprivation later, if he needed to. It was plausible; in the dark Sherlock couldn’t deduce how well he’s slept. “I missed you too.” Hopefully he wouldn’t.

Sherlock blinked, blinked again, and if it weren’t so dim John might have said he blushed. Sherlock acted as if he had, burying his face in John’s shoulder. John smiled, and continued scraping his nails softly over Sherlock’s scalp, rippling down his spine as shivers. John liked that, he liked that he could make Sherlock melt with the simplest of gestures. It also made his chest tight that Sherlock reacted so deeply, but then another part of him crowed with glee, because if _this_ is how much Sherlock reacted to something as small as _that…mmm._

Sherlock mumbled something, his breath hot through the fabric of John’s tatty shirt, reminding him that now was not exactly the time for _those things._

“What was that?” John tugged a bit on Sherlock’s hair. He sighed the sigh of I-am-fond-of-this-mortal-and-thus-should-be-forgiving, rolling his head to the side to mutter,

“When are you coming home?”

John snorted, lifting his head to reproach from a new angle. “When am _I coming home?_ It’s not like I’m here on holiday, Sherlock; _you_ kicked me out for that bloody social experiment you were so anxious to do.”

“Still your fault.”

_Oh,_ this should be good. John tried to push himself up fully, but Sherlock clung to his chest like some oversized tick, and the effort wasn’t worth all that. _“My fault?_ How is any of this _my fault?”_

“Yes _your fault,”_ Sherlock hissed, wriggling until his face hovered centimetres over John’s. Of course he’s the one that got to loom. “It’s _your fault_ I wanted to eviscerate that _imbecile_ for likening your mental prowess to nothing more than the faecal matter of the only mammal capable of flight!” Sherlock snapped his jaw shut, chest heaving in his ire, brushing John’s on every inhale. John was just about cross-eyed from how close they’d migrated—all it would take was a turn of his head, and their noses would brush, their eyelashes would tangle as they fluttered closed, all their attention focused on their—

“You gave me these _feelings,”_ Sherlock accused, his voice lowered to distant thunder. John wondered how long he would feel it rumble through his bones as he forced his gaze up from Sherlock’s mouth, back to his eyes. The night made them grayscale; vivid sharp and clear like John imagined that vacuum that held the stars would be. He wouldn’t mind trading his coloured sight for this.

“And what do you want me to do about it?” John murmured, and fucking _hell_ if John didn’t get his finally, didn’t get to taste that damn cupid’s bow, that neck, that _man…_

Sherlock leaned closer, his forehead against John’s, and John barely registered him mouthing “share them” before the last gap closed, and in the morning John saw his keys on the night stand, next to Sherlock’s phone, once again holding only four contacts.

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> Come hate me [here](http://singularlyobsessed.tumblr.com/) if you would be so kind.
> 
> EDIT: Forgot to mention that I've an idea for a series, it'll be titled 'Domesticity 221b' or similar, and depending on if I want the series to be chronological or stand-alone, this fic might be put in there, especially in the event of the latter scenario. Just a heads up in case that fucks with something internet-y.


End file.
